Schrödinger's Affair
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Jenny and Gibbs may (or may not) have hooked up before Europe. Set back in the day. Oneshot; smut-ish. Jibbs.


_a/n: this is not a big thing, it's just a one-shot i got inspired to write while i was going through old chapters of Probie Days (because my head-canon in that was that Jenny was engaged before her tunnel vision changed her) and i wanted to write that possible background with a more mature hand. so .. this is kind of an odd little fic, but i think i like it. _

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><p>He had noticed, even if her other teammates hadn't. It was a little obnoxious that two fully-trained federal agents hadn't been able to figure out the reason behind their female counterpart's shift in mood the past week or so, but her boss had noticed – and he didn't mention it until the Friday of a holiday weekend, when he was grabbing his jacket to leave, and it looked like she was going to be working late again.<p>

This time, though, they had so little to work on that even he couldn't find an excuse to stay – the past week had been brutal, but they'd closed two grueling cases yesterday, and his team had the three days off.

He let his jacket hang loosely over his arm and stood in front of her desk. She was staring down at some documents, her knuckles pressing into her forehead, and she didn't look up right away. He continued to look down at her bowed head, and finally she made a soft sighing noise.

"What, Gibbs?" she muttered.

"Go home."

She threw a flickering glance at the watch on her left hand, and shrugged. She shook her head a little. He cleared his throat pointedly, and narrowed his eyes.

"No reason for you to be here, Shepard," he said pointedly.

She shrugged again, silent.

He reached over, turned off her desk lamp, and then firmly closed the file on her documents. She glared down at his hand stubbornly.

"I'll drive you home," he told her seriously.

She looked up, at that, and narrowed her eyes, parting her lips slightly. She moved her hand from her temple, and pushed her long, red hair back.

"What?" she asked, blinking at him.

"You don't have a car," he stated. "I'll drive you. Keeps you off the Metro."

"I take the Metro every day, Gibbs," she said dully. "I don't need protection from it."

"Jesus, Shepard," he muttered good-naturedly. "This isn't one of your _chauvinist_ things. It's a favor."

She gave him a look and rolled her eyes a little. She leaned back, and then plucked her light jacket from the back of her chair and stood up. She tucked her hair behind her ears and opened a drawer, gathering her things. He watched her, his eyes intently focused on her left hand, on the ring finger, where a small, white band of skin glowed vaguely. She used that hand to tuck her hair back again, and then straightened up.

"I'm the opposite direction," she told him.

"I know."

"How do you know where I live?" she asked dryly.

"How d'you know I'm the opposite direction?" he countered.

She blinked at him, silent a moment, and then she smirked. She slipped her jacket on and flipped her hair out from the collar, shaking her head in some amusement. She gestured between them as they started towards the elevator.

"Shame Burley and Decker aren't here to gossip about us leaving together," she snorted, shooting Gibbs a wry look.

The lead agent shrugged, and leaned forward to hit the button for the low-level parking garage.

"Far as they know, we always do," he remarked.

Jenny tilted her head, eyeing her blurry, misshapen reflection in the chrome elevator doors. Gibbs had a point – Burley and Decker were always the first to leave, blessed with lives outside of the Navy Yard that they didn't hate. To those salacious rumormongers, she and Gibbs were having Schrödinger's affair.

As it were, she'd never left the office with him – she'd never come in with him, either.

She started towards the sleek black sedan Gibbs always parked in the same federal parking spot, but he shook his head, took her elbow, and pointed in a different direction.

"You don't take your federal car home?" she asked.

He just shook his head again, and let go of her elbow, pointing her over to a beat up, dusty red pick-up truck.

"Really, Gibbs?" she asked, opening the passenger door and bracing one foot on step as she pulled herself into the cab.

She shook her head a little, running her palm over the old, torn interior. The truck looked like something out of a small town country music video, and she was so used to Gibbs dressed professionally behind the wheel of a Pontiac with federal plates; she was interested to see this was what he chose for a personal vehicle.

He shrugged, slamming the driver's side door.

"What'd you have in mind?" he drawled.

She turned her head, giving him a serious look.

"Volkswagen Beetle," she deadpanned.

He glared at her, revved the engine; the aggressive, loud rumble of the truck indicated it was older, and well used; Jenny arched her eyebrows at it, and Gibbs cleared his throat.

"I look like the kind of guy who would drive a squishy little car?" he growled.

She put her seatbelt on, catching her tongue between her teeth in a small grin; she liked getting him riled like that, and even if she wasn't feeling particularly her self lately, she wasn't going to back off on that.

"The truck is an extension of your ego?" she teased.

He shot her another look and shook his head, looking almost more at ease and in control behind the wheel of this one than he did in the sharp, fast little federal vehicles.

"The truck's still runnin'," he said vaguely.

That made sense; Gibbs was definitely a man to absolutely refuse to buy anything new, update anything old, or try anything innovate – he was a _don't fix it if it ain't broke _kinda guy_._

She leaned against the door, propping her elbow on it and resting her head on her knuckles again. It seemed to drive out the constant dull headache that had been bothering her for the past week. She sat there tensely for a moment, then relaxed when it became clear that he wasn't going to make small talk –but she should have known she was safe from that, Gibbs rarely talked unless he had something to say.

Come to think of it – even then, he usually just said his piece with a well-executed _look_.

She did, however, find it necessary to speak when she realized he hadn't asked her for directions and yet was still following the exactly correct route to her brownstone; knowing her _address_ was one thing, being eerily sure of its location was different.

"Gibbs," she began mildly, staring out the window with a neutral expression, "do you make field trips to my home and stake me out from across the street or something?"

He grunted.

"No."

He didn't even get defensive or act outraged at the suggestion – which she supposed indicated he was definitely telling the truth. She arched an eyebrow and watched the familiar scenery as he turned down her street, decelerating slightly.

"You wouldn't happen to be part bat?"

He shook his head.

"Bats use echolocation," he said simply. "S'not what I'm doin'. I just know the city."

She was still a little impressed he seemed to know that about bats. She felt him shoot her a smug sort of grin.

"Keep underestimatin' me, Jenny," he remarked coolly. "I got more'n you think up here," he added, pointing at his head.

"Hmm," she murmured vaguely, as he pushed the gear into park in her empty driveway – it didn't used to be empty; there used to always be a spotless white Camaro. "I don't think you're stupid, Gibbs," she remarked mildly.

She had sold her father's pride and joy to pay for a private detective, and the detective had found nothing – what did that say about her intelligence?

Gibbs sat there, looking at her, and after a moment of quietly reflecting on the empty driveway, and what it said about her life, and her decisions since the day Jasper Shepard died, she jumped abruptly; she realized he was waiting for her to get out of the truck.

She pushed her hair back, sat forward, reached for the handle, and then – she didn't know why she did it – she turned her head to him, and asked:

"You want to come in for a drink?"

The invite wasn't completely out of left field; no, they had never gone home together after light nights at work, but they had definitely spent nights together working alone at the office, neither of them wishing to go home.

She laughed quietly to herself and shook her head, opening the truck door and letting herself out.

"I need a drink," she murmured coolly, slamming the door.

She didn't look back; either he'd follow her, or he'd leave, and she'd find out which one when she reached her door.

She heard a door slam behind her and smiled a little, taking her key from her pocket. Her father's housekeeper was long gone for the day, and there were no neighbors to watch her through their blinds – it's not as if they knew he was her boss, anyway. She held her breath as she unlocked her door with him standing behind her, and let them both in the statuesque old house.

"You're a bourbon man," she said, more of a statement than a question, and he nodded, closing the stained-glass door behind him.

She nodded, and gestured fluidly down the hall.

"Liquor's in the study," she offered, and then took two of her stairs, and glanced at him. "I'll be a minute."

She went up to change into something more comfortable – not 'slip' into something more 'sexy' as if this were some cheap pornography; she genuinely wanted out of her more professional business attire, and she didn't feel restricted by his presents.

She related to Gibbs; she'd known that for some time now, even if she didn't know why yet. It felt like an unspoken acknowledgement; he saw something in her, and she saw something in him, and neither of them were really in a position to do something about that – then.

She left her clothes in the middle of the floor, ignored some of the boxes by her closet, and slipped into short, breezy gym shorts and a loose V-neck shirt. She hesitated for a brief second – the clothes were casual, but were they suggestive? She didn't have any solidified intentions of projecting a seductive air. She licked her lips and ignored the question, leaving the room in her bare feet and taking the stairs lightly. She waltzed into the study and peered around, to see if he'd helped himself; she was both pleased and piqued to see that he had, and she wasn't sure why those two feelings conflicted.

"You bourbon, too?" he asked, tipping amber liquid into a glass for himself.

She lifted one shoulder coolly, and inclined her head.

"Prefer scotch?" Gibbs prodded.

She glanced at the liquor cabinet, and then shook her head wryly.

"No," she said firmly, and took the glass he offered her.

She sat down on the old leather sofa in the study – a sofa that sat in front of an unused fireplace filled with ashes, resting under a chimney that hadn't been cleaned in years – and she kicked her feet up onto the coffee table, knocking back a generous swallow of the whiskey.

Gibbs sat down next to her, on the edge of the couch. He watched her, and then looked down at the alcohol he was cradling, eyed it a moment, and took a long sip. He held his cut crystal in his hands and looked over at her, appraising her for a moment. Then, he spoke.

"When did he break it off?"

She looked at him sharply, and arched one dark brow, her lips curling slightly.

"What?"

He moved his glass, gesturing at his hand – indicating the finger he'd been staring at earlier, the ominous, naked finger with the significant tan line. She glanced down, and tilted her wrist, switching the glass to her other hand while she looked, and then she smirked, almost to herself, in a resigned way; it figured he would notice.

She looked back at him.

"You're so sure I didn't break it off?"

He shrugged a little.

"Think if it had been you, you'd be relieved, not moody," he remarked.

She thought there was an impressive amount of insight in that statement; he was probably right. If the decision to end her engagement had come from her, she'd be walking around with an unburdened spring in her step, instead of some self-doubt, annoyance, and grudging acceptance that it had been inevitable.

She flicked her eyes down to the finer and took another drink of whiskey.

"Last week," she said curtly. She rubbed her pinky where the small but elegant diamond used to be. "When did you notice?"

"Last week," he said automatically.

A grin skirted across her lips, and then disappeared as she caught his eye.

"You pay that close attention to my ring finger, Gibbs?" she asked quietly, teasing him.

"I pay attention to what might distract my agents," he answered logically.

"I'm not distracted," she said quietly, turning back to her drink. "_Fiancés_ are distracting."

Gibbs smirked; he sensed some bitterness to her comment.

"That what he told you?" he ventured, uncharacteristically curious.

There was a part of him that wanted to know why Shepard's rarely mentioned engagement had imploded. She'd been wearing the ring since she'd been hired, but she never referenced the guy – Decker said she'd told him his name once – and she never spoke a word about needing time off for a wedding or a honeymoon. She was – at least in Gibbs' experience – a very strange woman, when it came to the usual excitement of an engagement.

The redhead tilted her head back and forth, and didn't answer. She shook her head a little, shooting down his guess.

Her romantic life had fallen apart spectacularly in the weeks following Jasper Shepard's alleged suicide; she just hadn't accepted it until recently. The broken engagement hadn't come as a surprise, it was just an aftershock of the earthquake she created when she 'went off the deep end,' as they said, quit her job, joined NCIS, and refused to believe her father's death had been a shame-soaked suicide.

She leaned back against the couch, her shirt riding up as she relaxed into the cushions.

She pressed the edge of her glass to her lips, then lowered it, and licked her lips.

"He was very _cordial_," she mused, almost entertained by the memory. "I didn't cry," she narrated simply. She waved her free hand a little. "It had been over for months, Jethro," she muttered.

He nodded his head, finished his bourbon, and sat the glass on the coffee table. He leaned back, mimicking her stance, and folded his hands behind his head, his elbows angled out.

"Might've figured," he commented, snorting. "You never mentioned the guy."

He felt Jenny look at him sharply, though he was looking straight ahead, at the leather-bound, ancient looking books held in the glass bookshelf across from him. He saw her quick movement in the reflection.

"You wouldn't tolerate personal stories in the bullpen," she said sharply, her eyes narrowing. "Did you expect me to gush because I'm a girl?"

He smirked a little.

"Woman."

"Excuse me?"

"Women," he repeated. He gave her a quick look, and then went back to taking stock of the intimidating books. "We're supposed to call you women, in the workplace."

She made a small, derisive snorting sound that might have contained some amusement, and then she touched her teeth to the rim of her glass again.

"Bastard," she murmured under her breath, eyes glittering brightly.

"So what was he?" Gibbs pressed.

He didn't want to go home. He wanted to stay her; he realized that when he parked in the driveway. He didn't know why she'd invited him in for a drink, but he had followed her into the house, and he'd let her know he knew about her naked ring finger, and he was tired of chaste resistance.

"Hmm," Jenny thought aloud. "He works on the Hill," she stated finally.

She didn't elaborate. He hadn't been particularly famous, but he wasn't a nobody, either, and Gibbs often surprised her with knowledge. She didn't want to give a name that he miraculously recognized.

She pursed her lips.

"I thought you met him, though," she murmured, furrowing her brow.

Gibbs shook his head.

She looked at him insistently.

"He was at my badge ceremony, with the other Probies," she prodded. "He stood next to Ducky."

Gibbs shrugged, still shaking his head. He had stood in the back and spoken to no one; then he'd dragged his newly initiated agent into the field with the rest of her team – he didn't have time for ceremonial nonsense.

She made a soft noise, and shrugged; it didn't matter. She didn't think she'd have liked for him to meet Gibbs; he might have noticed she gave Gibbs the same head-tilt, lip-bite she used to give her intended – or perhaps noticed it was a more intense version of it; these days, she didn't know if she'd ever really been that head over heels for her former fiancé.

She snorted quietly.

"The thing is, I'd stopped loving him before last week," she muttered. She took another drink of whiskey. "Don't know if I ever loved him," she added dryly.

She'd been questioning that lately. She'd been questioning a lot of things – and when doubt about who her father had really been threatened to unsettle her at night, she clung tighter to her vow of revenge, her vow to vindicate him.

She pushed her pinky finger against her ring finger again, remembering how it used to feel with the rock hugging it. She liked it like this: bare, vulnerable. She was relieved the tedious pretending was over – and she was glad he'd broken it off – but she still felt blindsided, screwed; wondering if it was over because he really hadn't been right for her, or because her father's death really had warped her, changed her, like he said.

Gibbs turned his head, and studied her. She shifted, turned onto her side almost. Her feet slid off the coffee table and she drew them up, one arm wrapping around her knees. She lay at a half-sitting angle on the couch, her body angled towards him, and she pursed her lips.

"Do you love your wife?" she asked. She smirked a little, and then fluttered her lashes. " I mean – _did_ you love her?" she corrected – it was no secret that Gibbs and his wife were on the rocks, had been for some time, according to Burley.

"My wife moved out," he said.

That was it; the extent of his answer. She let her eyes rest on his for a moment before turning the corner of her mouth up and lifting her glass to her lips, watching him while she finished the whiskey in her glass.

"Was that a line, Agent Gibbs?" she drawled softly.

His lips twitched a little, and his jaw tightened.

"Far as Burley and Decker know, we're still at the office," Gibbs grunted.

Jenny gave him a wry little look, and licked her lips.

"You can go home, Jethro," she said huskily. "I'm not upset; it won't affect my work – I didn't want to marry him; I don't need to be consoled."

Her words were almost like poetry; matched in a rehearsed way, but believable; he sensed that she genuinely felt that way. She wasn't so much heartbroken as distracted by personal introspection. He knew what that was like, to a stunted extent.

He lifted his chin a little, silently. Her eyes fell to his mouth, and she looked at him, waiting for him to protest. She started to say something, closed her mouth, and moved her head, tilting it closer. He didn't move again, so when her lips met his, she knew it was her; her initiation, her choice.

She didn't move her hands, didn't move the rest of her body at all; she kissed him with her lips, a tilt of her head, a flutter of heavy eyelashes – he was the one who turned at the hip, reached for her shoulder, and pressed a warm, firm hand against her skin, seconds from pulling her against him.

She pulled away and sat forward, sitting up, setting her glass on the table with a loud noise, and resting her elbows on her knees. She bit her tongue, her lips pressed together hard, and she closed her eyes a moment, staring down at the carpet.

She put the heel of her hand to her temple, pressing hard. She tried not to think – her headache had disappeared, and she felt hot, not feverish – aggressively hot, like she needed to be touched.

She felt him move, like he was going to sit forward and rest his hand on her back, make some gruff apology, and she opened her eyes. She sat up, stared at her blurred, distorted reflection in the glass bookcase, and then she turned quickly.

He didn't expect her to move the way she did. She saw a brief flash of his widened blue eyes, the wary clench of his jaw, and he sat back hard, caught off guard, when she straddled his lap, her shorts pushing up her thighs, knees sinking into the couch on either side of him.

Her nose pressed into his cheek for a moment, her breath lingered near his jaw; she touched her lips to his, hesitantly, like a cautious taste, and then she kissed him hard, with relief – he felt her relief, when he rested his palms on her shoulders, he felt her muscles relax as her lips opened against his, like she was glad she'd made the move.

His fingers curled into her shirt tightly, he pulled her closer to his chest, resisting the urge to voice the same relief, the same sentiment, in a muffled groan against her lips. He was just sliding his hands up, brushing his fingers against the skipping pulse in her neck, when she reared back, her legs tightening against him sharply.

"No," she said aloud.

He slipped is hand into her hair, pressed it against the back of her head. He nodded his head a little, blinking cautiously. She didn't pull back very far; her hands rested loosely against his neck. She shook her head.

"You're married," she hissed in a dull voice – not accusatory, but resigned; reminding herself.

His brow furrowed slightly; hadn't he just told her – her words didn't register that well, because his wife had left weeks ago.

"She left," he corrected, shaking his head.

He ran his thumb over her throbbing pulse, his fingertips brushing against her skin temptingly. She swallowed with her lips parted, her eyes on his, heart beating against her ribs, insistent, wary.

She moved her head slightly.

"You aren't divorced," she corrected under her breath; there was still a distinction – it wasn't always just _married_ or _not married_.

He grit his teeth.

"She left me, Jen," he repeated. He shrugged. "She walked out."

"That's what you want?" Jenny asked hoarsely. She moved her head. "You don't care that your wife's gone?"

He blinked; he looked at her with a guarded expression, a steady expression. It didn't seem like the kind of question he usually was asked, and she grit her teeth – he made her nervous; he did something to her, something that started in her stomach and touched the base of her soul – and she'd heard talk, that he had a track record with women – the joke was, how'd he manage to get married, if he never left the office?

"Wouldn't be here if I did," he answered, moving his head forward.

His lips pressed against hers again, and she pressed back for a moment, drawn in, distracted; she pulled back slightly again, sucking in her breath – she hadn't intended this, hadn't had this in mind, but she was mere moments away from abandoning her resolve, and what made her skittish was that she didn't feel like this was a simple rebound – for either of them.

Her eyes drifted half-closed, and she sighed quietly.

"I really like you, Jethro," she murmured, a whisper, a confession. She twitched her nose. "I don't like one night stands," she said, "and I don't want to work with you, stare at you, take orders from you, if you see me naked and are gone before I wake up."

There it was; he could take it or leave it. She let out a slow breath, almost a laugh of disbelief.

"Why did your wife leave you?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"She never liked me much," he quipped dryly.

Jenny bit her lip tensely. She leaned forward and nipped at his bottom lip, catching her breath. She slid her palms up his neck, then flattened them, and pressed them down to his shoulders, her body against his definitively.

"I don't know what you did to her," she murmured, her lips finding his ear. "I guess I'm next," she conceded.

He swallowed; he did something with his jaw, like he was nodding, and he turned his head, trying to find her mouth with his. It was a magnetic thing that drew them back together for another kiss, a more committed kiss, and then his hands discovered the smooth, warm skin under her shirt as quickly as she could take a breath and a moment to yank his over his head.

He didn't know what he expected; he didn't know if she'd stop him, ask him to come upstairs, or stop him entirely, change her mind, ask him to leave – she did neither of those things.

Her hands traced pathways on his skin, scratched at him, analyzed him, and her lips found their way over his jaw, to his neck, back to his mouth again. She let him touch her, let him push her hips down hard and pointedly against him, but she pushed away his hand when he reached to pull her shirt off.

She unzipped him – she had an advantage there; it was easy to maneuver around his clothes; she had to rise up on her knees, hover over him, so he could wrestle with the light material of her shorts, struggle with her position for a moment until she relented and moved enough so that he could throw the damn things to the floor. She pushed him away again when he reached for her panties, and he had the distinct feeling she had decided if there was no real nudity, there was no real carnal act.

He gripped her hips tightly, resigned to letting her decide what she wanted. She had firm hands, good hands; she danced her fingers down his chest and twisted her palm around him. He moved a hand from her hip to her stomach, lower, between her legs and under the thin lingerie.

She moved closer, parted her lips against his jaw, and then shifted, brushing his hand away gently; he was surprised when she didn't move to take her panties off, she held it against her inner thigh. She made a soft noise of anticipation against his throat, bit her lip, and pushed his hips up as she slid down on him, closing his eyes tightly.

She moved her hips tightly, adjusting; he groaned in her ear, screaming her name in his head.

"Jethro," she breathed, in a high, soft whisper. She shifted her hips up, and down again – then again; then a third time, harder, and she gasped, grasping his shoulders hard.

The soft, cotton material of her skirt clung to his chest and he pressed his forehead into her collarbone, his hands gripping her hips tightly. He let her move, his breathing getting harder. He grit his teeth; it didn't seem to take her long, and he moved his lips in a silent prayer.

Her nails pinched into his skin and she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, turning her head against him; he could feel her heart beating, feel her soft, uneven, labored breathing.

He liked the sounds she was making; he liked that she seemed to lose her nerve, that she started to hold onto him like she needed him to take-over, like she was losing; he did that for her – his hands slipped from her hips to her thighs, one thumb stroking her, and he grit his teeth hard, listening to her moans escalate; she bit his neck gently, dug her nails into his shoulder harshly – snapped like a rubber band –

- she kept moving; she tightened her body on him, tight, hard, dizzying movements until every swear word he knew slammed together in his throat but he couldn't say anything; he knotted his fingers in her red hair and pulled, holding her hips tight on him as she relaxed against him, and he followed her down.

His head fell back against the couch, and he let out a breath, eyes heavy. She rested against him, her skin hot to the touch, slick, sticky; he felt her run her hand down his chest between them, rest there a moment; she moved off of him. He felt, heard, her soft intake of breath, and her forehead twitched – she winced.

She ran her hand over herself, covering up – smoothing out the mangled lingerie, and she picked up her shorts to slip back on – thought better of it, and tossed them into Gibbs' lap.

He caught them; tightened is fist. She pushed her hair back, touched her lips, and then pulled her hand away, flushing.

It always took her a moment to remember how messy sex was; how unromantic the reality.

Her hands shook as she took the whiskey from her father's desk, filled their empty glasses, and collapsed on the couch; she felt exhausted, but she didn't feel bad – she felt sated.

She lay against his side, her head resting against his ribs, watching brazenly as he readjusted; zipped up. She handed him a glass, and she closed her eyes. He touched her hair; his knuckles brushed her cheek.

She felt a little better, laying on him like this; she felt satisfied, even if she'd wanted to hold out longer – she'd wanted him to be divorced, she'd wanted to be away from this city.

He bent over her, his lips brushing her forehead. She raised her hand, pressed the cool crystal glass against her temple.

"You gonna let me stay the night?" he asked – it was in jest, mostly, but he was serious; he had heard what she said – he'd never had any intention of running away from her, not now.

She swallowed, and licked her lips. His fingers moved through her hair again – almost softly enough to be called _tender _– and she wondered why she had given in like this, so callously, so messily.

She took a deep breath.

"How many days until we leave for Europe?" she asked shakily – her voice was weak, lazy.

He grunted; he told her it was something like a month. She nodded. She turned her head, pressed close to him, breathing him in.

"I don't really want to start this until Europe," she confessed in a small voice. "You can see me naked in Europe."

She had wanted to wait, because she didn't like how Gibbs made her feel; she was scared of it, and that was when he was her untouchable, married boss – she was scared of him, when he was available and she was vulnerable, and she didn't want to get side-tracked – and Europe was not this treacherous, Georgetown world where her White Whale taunted her; this could stay in Europe.

His hand moved over her – down over her breasts, to her stomach, resting on her comfortably, holding her without binding her to him. He took a drink of whiskey, and nodded.

He leaned back, and closed his eyes.

She wanted to exist in a half-state, an undefined state, until they were away from prying eyes – away from the will-they won't they whispers, and he gave her that –

They didn't have to open the box until Europe.

* * *

><p><em> -this also relies on the Copenhagen interpretation of the Shrodinger cat-in-the-box experiment, that being that until something is proven, it exists in more than one possible state (and obviously I've taken liberties with it) <em>

_-alexandra  
>story #246<em>


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